


Heart Strings

by rael_ellan



Series: A World in Words [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Minor Angst, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rael_ellan/pseuds/rael_ellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Constance receives her first letter from d'Artagnan, away on campaign.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>My Darling Constance,</i><br/>I miss you. I love you. I think of you everyday.<br/>We haven't heard anything from Aramis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heart Strings

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Constance. Or Anne. Or indeed anyone who isn't Athos. 
> 
> This is also not in my usual style, so I hope it's alright.
> 
> If you find any errors, please feel free to let me know. I'd be delighted with any thoughts on how to improve this. ~~Or, you know, tell me should you happen to enjoy it too. That'd be great~~

Somehow, Constance had expected court life to change with the start of the war. France was short a First Minister again, with Rochefort’s death, and the King, surely, would have to take more interest in the world beyond his palace walls. 

And he did, to some degree. He had little enough patience for weddings and gossip and the usual courtly affairs, often interrupting reports and comments to ask Treville, pointedly, for news. He seemed to enjoy constantly raising the Musketeers (and, indeed, the rest of his army, though the King’s Guard enjoyed the brunt of it) to almost god-like status with their deeds and daring-do, particularly against anyone who sought to achieve his favour, but a leopard cannot change his spots.

Louis quickly tired of this, when it was clear that there was no real progress happening. War, Treville informed him, was a waiting game, of strategy and careful manoeuvres, and could not be rushed, even for the King of France. If, that is, the King wished to have victory.

“Alright, alright. Do as you wish. But you _will_ hunt with me tomorrow, won’t you? You will not refuse me again, Treville.”

Most of the day-to-day running of the court the King all but abandoned, as much as he ever had. Constance supposed this was why Cardinal Richelieu had been so favoured. And, probably, why he had looked so old. Without a First Minister to turn to – that was one position that Treville could sensibly refuse, and he did so with as much grace and humility as he could muster – Louis turned to his most trusted ally in court.

“Well, why not?” he asked, when his ministers voiced their concern. “She is the Queen of France. And she has proven _her_ loyalty.” And so the matter was closed.

Anne was suddenly privy to all of the King’s Councils, whether or not he attended. She was his eyes and ears. In many ways, this was something of a blessing. The Queen had always been the King’s balance and support, his compassion and his generosity. Now she was also his devoted protector and his fierce friend, and everyone noticed the difference. She sat taller, looked the ministers in the eyes and held them there. 

Perhaps it was the knowledge that she stood between France and Spain and should have been torn between them, but was not. Perhaps it was simply the way they had wronged her under Rochefort’s guidance, but something about her made them rush their words and carefully chosen propaganda as they would never have done for the King. She was able to get to the heart of matters – the real heart of things – so much faster and far more graciously than Louis had ever done. 

Constance liked it, too. As the Queen’s favourite – still a curious thought, even after all this time – she often sat in on the councils. The Queen had even asked her opinion on several occasions. The small part of her – getting smaller everyday – that still thought herself a tailor’s wife, a second person to her husband (though her heart had always railed against it, years of marriage to Bonacieux had taught her some degree of acceptance and it was sometimes difficult to forget it) always fluttered when she was asked to speak, though whether from fear or joy, she couldn’t tell. 

“Well, if there is nothing else to discuss?”

Anne sat at the head of the table, hands folded neatly in her lap and piercing eyes considering the council before her.

No one spoke. They were all tired, both from the long session and from the heat, for Summer had apparently come early to Paris. 

“Then we shall meet again with the King’s blessing this coming Thursday. His majesty will be most pleased to know our progress. Gentlemen.”

She stood, and the council stood with her, bowing respectfully. Some of them still railed against answering to a Spanish Queen, and they bowed as little as possible without causing obvious offence. Constance made a note of them. Fewer than last week, that was good. 

“Oh, Constance,” the Queen paused in the corridor, smiling softly. “I’m such a fool; with all the excitement of the Council, I forgot to ask Monsieur Treville to join us tonight. The King wishes to hear a report, and he is always at his best over dinner. Would you be so kind as to deliver my compliments?”

“With pleasure, your majesty.” And it was the truth.

It was, perhaps, one of life’s great ironies that the only minister who would have been perfectly happy to report everything to the Queen, was the only one who could not. As Minister for War, his reports were made only to the King and to his secret war councils. These the Queen was not invited to attend. 

But then, Captain Treville had never _actually_ been invited to dinner with the King in his life. Anne had grown up in court; she knew how to play the game. Constance was only too happy to follow her lead.

\---------------  
“Good day, Captain.”

“Madame d’Artagnan.” More than a month and the sound of her name still made her flush with pride, made her stand a little straighter. “I was just about to ask for you.”

That was unexpected. Usually Constance had to all but beg him for the slightest scrap of news. Damn her heart. She was probably being too eager, misreading him. It was probably for something completely innocent. He needed her help, perhaps, or needed to speak with the Queen, but she couldn’t help the way her heart jumped at the thought...

“Is there news?”

Across his desk, behind his veritable mountain of paperwork and looking more tired than she had yet seen him, Treville managed a smile.

“I have a letter for you, Madame.”

“A letter?” Her heart was fluttering, now, leaping about like a bird. “From my husband?”

He nodded.

“From your husband, Madame.”

She could have hugged him. D’Artagnan – it was, even now, so very hard to think of him as _Charles_ – had been gone for a little over a month with most of the Musketeers regiment. She had had little notes from him, a line or two delivered at the end of mission reports or missives to Treville, and she had often written to him, but this would be his first letter. 

Instead, she took the letter (slowly; her hand was shaking. At least it was only Treville) and clutched it to her chest.

“Thank you,” she breathed, and wondered if she was smiling as stupidly as she thought she was.

\--------------

Back in her own rooms, beside the Queen’s, Constance lit a candle. It was evening now, the sun sinking fast despite the Summer weather, and she had been dismissed from her duties for the day. When Anne had discovered she had not just a scrap of news but a _letter_ she had almost dismissed her at once, but then the Dauphin had begun to cry, and for a time Constance had dampened her own delight. 

Now, she was at her leisure. 

Where should she read it? At her writing-desk, perhaps? Or would that seem too cold, too informal? In bed? But the light did not reach her pillow quite so well. She dithered for a moment, standing in the middle of the room in her nightgown with the windows thrown wide and the Summer breeze lifting the strands of her hair.

The desk, she decided, eventually. Then, if it were anything serious... 

Her fingers trembling, she carefully broke the seal (Athos’s, she noted) and opened the fragile page.

                _My Darling Constance_ , he began.

                _I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying court life, despite the fishwives. Do they really have to follow the Queen everywhere? How are they supposed to protect her? They did nothing against Rochefort. Perhaps you should give the King a demonstration of your skill with a sword or a musket, then they might see sense and leave it to your good judgement._

She found herself grinning. D’Artagnan always tried to write in a very formal style, but found it impossible to keep to. He spoke his mind as he always did, wearing his heart on his sleeve; a beautiful contradiction.

                _Life here is not so very different from the Garrison, as yet. There are horses to be fed and watered, patrols to be done. Everyone is in high spirits, despite the impending battles, and even Athos allows himself to be pulled into the fun. He won’t join in the singing, though. There he draws the line._

                _He spends a great deal of time in his tent, staring at maps, drawing and re-drawing lines and noting down all his thoughts on paper to discuss in the morning. Apparently he thinks best at night, though quite how he manages it when Barbon and Foy are singing bawdy songs at the top of their lungs – and enthusiasm really doesn’t make up for their distinct lack of a tune – I have no idea._

                _Somehow, I have become the mediary between Athos and the others. It’s as though they fear to go near him, sometimes. Certainly he’s more unpredictable than the Captain ever was, but really he isn’t that bad. You just have to know when he’s joking and when he’s actually furious. He maintains that he is the worst possible choice for Captain and continually tries to hand the role over to anyone within shouting distance – Porthos and I are constantly refusing – but I don’t think he really means it. I think he enjoys having people jump to attention whenever he walks past. Perhaps that’s something of the old Olivier coming through. We’ve always respected him, but now I think he feels it much more keenly than before, and he’s coming to terms with all the planning and paperwork involved. Though delegating the penwork seems to be no problem at all! I have written so many missives in the last few hours that my hands are aching with every word._

That she could sympathise with. He loved the form of it, the feel of a pen sweeping across a page, but d’Artagnan had never been the most skilled at letter writing. He wrote slowly, in great scrawling letters that sat on their side and were often smudged where he leant against the paper before it was dry. He always had ink on his clothes, after he’d been writing.

                _We haven’t heard anything from Aramis._

His style, as his mood, changed abruptly. The sharp squiggles of his earlier amusement mellowed into something smoother and distinctly more legible.

                _Truthfully, everyone is very low about that, though no one will admit it. It feels wrong, somehow, to be here without him, even if we haven’t actually done any fighting yet. It feels strange to be three parts of four. It doesn’t feel right. I miss his voice in the evenings. I miss his humour. I miss his stories and his humming and his easy laughter. I miss him._

The wind tugged at the candle and it nearly went out. Carefully, Constance set down the page and pulled the windows shut. She stood for a moment, leaning her forehead against the cool glass.

She had forgotten just how plaintive he could sound, even in her head. For all his formal style, d’Artagnan’s misery seeped into every word he wrote, drawn directly from his heart, as everything he said always was.

She poured herself some water, drank deeply, and sat back down.

                _Athos is angry, I think. He doesn’t want to talk about Aramis. He only says that he has made his choice and we must respect it, but every time he calls us to his tent he waits just a bit too long, waiting for Aramis to slide in behind us as though he has never been anywhere else._

                _Porthos doesn’t speak much at all. He turns to stare out at the horizon in the evenings with his back to the camp. He’s waiting for Aramis to come riding in, too. He doesn’t believe Aramis has abandoned us._

                _Athos and Porthos barely speak to each other when they are not strategising. I can hardly bare it._

                _I try to spend time with them both, but it is hard. Athos often asks for my help in the evenings. I can feel Porthos drifting further and further away, but I do not know what to do._

                _I suppose I was wrong; life is very different here._

                _My candle is running low, and I can see Porthos stalking about outside like a great wolf. I suppose I should go and force him to try and sleep. Honestly, however did you wrangle us all so well? We must have driven you to distraction!_

And beyond, Constance thought, ruefully, though her heart ached for him.

                _I miss you. I love you. I think of you every day._

                _Yours,_

                _Charles._

The wind clawed again at the window and crept in beneath the shutters, suddenly biting cold, even for April. It blew out the candle, and Constance crawled into bed in the dark, still holding her letter, pressing it against her cheek.


End file.
